You’re not the lady of the houseyoure the servant, my motherinlaw, Margaret Whitmore, had said, her voice slick as marmalade but cutting like a dash of hot sauce, a thin veil of false sweetness. I gave a silent nod, taking the almost empty salad bowl. The lady in questionmy husband Charless thirdcousin, Aunt Eleanorglared at me with the irritation one reserves for a persistent fly buzzing round a kitchen for ten minutes.
I slipped through the kitchen as if I were a shadow, trying not to be seen. It was Charless birthday, or rather, his familys birthday celebration held in my flata flat I paid for myself. Laughter erupted from the sittingroom in ragged bursts, the boisterous bass of Uncle Jacks jokes mingling with the sharp bark of his wife, Helen. Over it all rose Margarets firm, almost commanding tone. Charles, I imagined, was tucked away in a corner, his smile tight, his nod timid.
I filled the salad bowl, topping it with a sprig of dill, my hands moving on autopilot while a single thought looped in my mind: twenty. Twenty million. The night before, after a final email confirmation arrived, I had perched on the bathroom floor, hidden from everyones eyes, staring at my phone screen. The project I had nurtured for three yearshundreds of sleepless nights, endless negotiations, tears, and nearhopeless attemptshad boiled down to a single figure: seven zeros. My freedom.
Where are you hiding? Margaret snapped, impatient. The guests are waiting! I carried the bowl back into the hall where the party was in full swing.
Youre as slow as molasses, Molly, Aunt Eleanor chided, pushing her plate aside. A proper turtle. Charles flinched but kept his mouth shut. He never liked a scene.
I set the salad on the table. Margaret, smoothing the perfect arrangement, announced loudly enough for all to hear, Not everyone can be quick. Office work isnt housekeeping. You sit at a desk and go home. Here you must think, juggle, hustle. She swept the room with a victorious glance; heads bobbed in agreement. Heat rose to my cheeks.
Reaching for an empty glass I knocked a fork off the edge. It clattered onto the floor.
Silence. For a heartbeat everyone froze, eyes darting from the fork to me. Margaret burst into a loud, bitter laugh. See? I told you! Your hands are useless! She turned to the woman beside her, voice still dripping sarcasm, I always said to Charles, she isnt his match. In this house youre the master, and she just a decorative piece. Bring it, fetch it. Not the ladyjust the servant.
The room erupted in a snigger that felt more like spite than mirth. Charles averted his gaze, pretending the napkin was a pressing matter. I lifted the fork, stood straight, and for the first time all evening allowed a genuine smile to spread across my faceno strain, no politeness, just real.
They hadnt the slightest clue that the world built on my patience was about to crumble, while mine was only just beginning. My smile seemed to knock them off balance; the laughter died as abruptly as it had started. Margarets jaw froze in bewilderment; she stopped chewing, her mouth hanging open.
Instead of returning the fork to the table I slipped into the kitchen, dropped it into the sink, fetched a clean glass and poured myself a glass of cherry juicethe very one Margaret dismissed as a frivolous indulgence and a moneydraining folly. Glass in hand, I returned to the sittingroom and claimed the only empty seatright beside Charles. He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.
Molly, the hot soup is cooling! Margaret exclaimed, her voice again ringing with steel. You must serve the guests. I took a small sip, eyes still on her, and said, Im sure Charles can manage. Hes the master of this house. Let him prove it. All eyes flitted to Charles. He paled, then flushed, his stare flickering between me and his mother.
I of course, he stammered, stumbling toward the kitchen. It was a tiny, sweet victory. The air grew thick, heavy.
Realising the direct attack had failed, Margaret shifted tactics, speaking of the countryside retreat. Weve decided to go to the cottage in Kent this July. A month, as usual, to breathe some fresh air. She glanced at me as though I were a mere footnote. Molly, youll need to start packing next week, move the supplies, ready the house. She spoke as if it were settled long ago, as if my opinion mattered not at all.
I set my glass down slowly. Sounds lovely, Margaret, but I have other plans this summer. My words hung in the room like ice cubes on a hot day.
What other plans? Charles returned with a tray of uneven plates, his voice trembling with irritation and confusion. What are you dreaming up?
I looked first at him, then at his mother, whose eyes were now blazing. I have business plans. Im buying a new flat. I paused, savoring the effect. This one has become far too cramped. A deafening silence fell, broken only by Margarets short, rattling laugh. Shes buying? With what money, may I ask? A thirtyyear mortgage? Working your whole life for concrete walls?
Mothers right, Molly, Charles chimed in, seeking her approval. He set the tray down with a crash, sauce splashing onto the tablecloth. Stop this circus. Youre disgracing us. What flat? Have you lost your mind?
I scanned the faces of the guests; each wore a look of contempt, as if I were an empty spot that suddenly fancied itself something grand. Why a mortgage? I asked, smiling gently. I dont like debt. Im paying cash. Uncle Jack, who had been silent, snorted. Inheritance, perhaps? Did the old millionayearold aunt in America die?
The guests giggled, feeling once more the owners of the scene. You could say that, I replied, turning to Jack. Only the old aunt is me, and Im still alive.
I took a sip of cherry juice, letting the silence settle. Yesterday I sold my project. The one for which you all thought I was just sitting in the office. The company I built over three years. My startup. I met Margarets eyes. The deal was twenty million pounds. The money is already in my account. So yes, Im buying a flatperhaps even a little house by the sea, so Im never cramped again.
A ringing hush filled the room. Smiles faded, replaced by shock and bewilderment. Charles stared, mouth agape, no sound escaping. Margarets complexion drained; the mask she wore crumbled before our eyes.
I rose, grabbed my handbag from the chair. Charles, happy birthday. Heres my gift to you. Im moving out tomorrow. You and your family have a week to find a new place. Im selling this flat as well. I walked toward the door, the silence around me absolute, as if they were all frozen statues.
At the doorway I turned once more, voice steady as a metronome. And, Margaret, the servant is tired and wants a rest.
Six months later I was living a new life. I perched on the wide windowsill of my new flat, the city lights of London spilling over the floortoceiling windows like a living, breathing creature that no longer seemed hostile. In my hand was a glass of cherry juice; on my knees rested a laptop open to the blueprints of a new architectural app that had already attracted its first investors. I worked a lot, but now it brought joy, because the work filled me rather than drained me.
For the first time in years I breathed fully. The constant tension that had been my companion for so long evaporated. The habit of treading lightly, of guessing others moods, the feeling of being a guest in my own homeall of it slipped away. After that birthday, Charless calls never ceased. He moved through stages: furious threats (Youll regret this! Youre nothing without me!), to latenight voice messages where he sobbed about how good things were before. Listening, I felt only cold emptiness; his good was built on my silence. The divorce came quickly; he made no demands.
Margaret was predictable. She called, demanded justice, screamed that I had stolen her son. Once she cornered me outside the business centre where I rented office space, tried to grab my arm. I simply walked past, saying nothing. Her power ended where my patience ran out.
Sometimes, in a strange bout of nostalgia, I would glance at Charless old socialmedia page. The photos showed him back at his parents house, the same carpet, the same wall hanging, his face forever frozen in a look of perpetual resentment, as if the whole world were to blame for his failed life.
The guests are gone. The celebrations have ceased. A few weeks ago, returning from a meeting, I received a text from an unknown number: Molly, hi. Its Charles. Mum wants a salad recipe. Says she cant get it right. I stopped dead in the middle of the street, read it several times, then laughednot with malice, but genuinely. The absurdity of the request was the perfect epilogue to our saga. They had tried to destroy my family, to crush me, and now they wanted a simple salad.
I looked at the screen. In my new life, filled with interesting projects, respectable people, and quiet happiness, there was no room for old recipes or old grudges. I added the number to the block list without hesitation, sweeping it away like a stray speck of dust. Then I took a generous sip of my cherry juice, its sweettart note a reminder of freedom. It tasted like liberty, and it was glorious.
